


The Belles of Miss Robichaux's.

by Gevar



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Coven
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Gen, Humor, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2019-10-18 22:12:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17589347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gevar/pseuds/Gevar
Summary: A much comedic take of the exciting and dull times of the young witches living at Miss Robichaux's Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies. Mostly just snippets or drabbles.





	1. Hit the Jackpot, Baby.

**Author's Note:**

> Slightly inspired by the St. Trinians' films, which honestly could have been Miss Robichaux's, without magic but plenty of mayhem. The timeline is all over the place.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Queenie tries her luck at Jackpot.

“I am one step away from being rich,” Queenie says, thumbing the lottery ticket religiously. She spent the better part of three weeks, trying to raise her winning odds with complicated mathematical formulas. Not that Zoe understands a single formula. She barely scraped a passing grade a lifetime ago.

“Right. Now all you need is money,” Madison retorts, hardly glancing up from her phone.

Zoe silences Madison with a withering glare, returns her gaze to the TV. “They’re drawing the numbers.”

The silence is palpable, as the digits popping into the screen, in several agonising seconds.

“So, did she hit the jackpot?” Madison asks, her phone lays forgotten in hand and sharp jaw could touch the floor, if humanely possible.

The reactions are automatic, and for a flickering, blissful moment, Zoe thinks they _actually_ achieved solidarity forged by the love for lots of money.

“I’m rich!” Queenie wails, waving the ticket in air.

Zoe and Madison hug each other; both joyfully shrieking and jumping, “We’re rich!”

“Hate to rain on your parade, but the academy will need that money, after that last fiasco with the fire-eating stripper,” Nan mutters, effectively stomping the happiness out from their expressions.

“I thought Cordelia said she already handled that,” Madison replies, an octave higher than her usual irate tone.

Nan shakes her head sideways. “No, she didn’t. The bank cancelled her attempt to get loan to fix the academy. She’s been obsessing about getting the required money, that she’s even getting nightmares. Something about resorting to begging from the former students.”

“What happened?” Cordelia asks, frazzled as though she had sprinted down the imperial staircase—which she probably did. The headmistress wheezes so loud, Zoe fears she might collapse from the strain alone.

“We now have the money to fix the left wing,” Nan supplies helpfully, pointing an index finger at Queenie. “They hit the jackpot.”

Cordelia straightens; a sceptical smile forms on her lips. “That’s _wonderful_ , girls. This is a godsend miracle.”

Queenie eyes the ticket forlornly, like star-crossed lovers about to part ways. Then she hands it over to Cordelia, “Here. Take it, before I change my mind.”

Madison throws her hands up in frustration, but remains silent.

“I have to cash this. Get the construction to start before the weather gets bad.”

At Cordelia’s back receding from their view, Zoe solemnly quips, “Now I can safely say that I’ve had the pleasure of being a ten-second millionaire. It’s even better than sex.”

“With your killer vagina, a millionaire triumphs that,” Nan agrees.


	2. Map, Morgue and May.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another manic Monday, Zoe and Madison take a trip down memory lane.

“Remember: if we get caught, I’m deaf and you don’t speak English,” Madison remarks, crushing her cigarette with the heel of her promiscuous red stilettos.

“Like that would work,” Zoe retorts, consulting the hastily, crudely drawn map. She copied the blueprint off the archives from the library; without the ability to read such map.

“It will. Trust me, between the two of us, I’m the one with a string of movies and series under my IMDb.” She trails after Zoe, evading video cameras with the grace and dexterity of anxiety-ridden feline.

Several twists and turns down into the labyrinthine corridors later, they arrive at the basement undetected. Zoe stows away the map neatly into her pocket. “This is the one.”  

“Remind me why are we doing this again?” Madison groans, yanking the one of cold chambers open. Female, broken neck. Elderly male, cancer. “I mean, he’s just some random dude who died.”

“You killed him over a badly cooked risotto.” Zoe moves to the other end of the morgue, peeking into the covered bodies, one by one.

“It was a fucking _accident_! How should I fucking know that he has a weak heart? He was like twenty-five and if he’s that weak, he should have been a bellboy,” the shorter witch hisses, and gesturing Zoe to come over. “Secondly, he’s not even fuckable like Kyle.”

“You promised Cordelia no more killing until May,” Zoe snaps, through clenched teeth. She sighs, dumping the contents of her bag on the cold metal slab.

“In my defence, it remotely doesn’t looked like an edible risotto. Gordon Ramsay would wept at that piece of shit.” Madison slices her palm open, completing the pentagram Zoe drawn. They perform the ritual in synchronised movements and chants. Not a single hint of trembling voices and dreaded uncertainty. Without a word, Madison packs their things, and Zoe cleans off the evidences.

“It wasn’t even a legit pinky promise. But I digress from the fact that he could have died anytime.”

“Yeah, that excuse only worked for the first five deaths you ‘accidentally’ caused.” Zoe shoves a finger at Madison’s lips, shushing her.

The sound of booted footsteps is unmistakeable. Gets louder in their direction; accompanied by panic mumblings of the mortician. Zoe presses herself closer against the door, and ducks. She clamps an iron grip around Madison and drags her down.

“I just had an epiphany or something,” Madison announces, squeaky and sombre.

“What?”

“I like this morgue. It’s more homely than the rest. We should visit this place more often.”

Zoe narrows her eyes at the shorter witch, and bristles, “No, we’re not.”

She contemplates a moment to contradict. But doesn’t, and nods. “Yeah, you’re right. This isn’t Paramount Studios.”

“Let’s get out from here.”


	3. Unicorn and Brownies Don't Mix.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The girls try to contain Zoe before she spins out of control.

“Me? Crazy? I should get down off this unicorn and _slap_ you,” Zoe slurs. Leaning forward, she tries to whack Madison’s face, but fails. She persists in her next attempt; it’s almost like watching a toddler playing whac-a-mole. The effort is commendable.

“Calm down, bitch. No one’s calling you crazy,” Queenie pacifies, then stage-whispers, “What the hell was inside that brownie?”

Nan purses her lips, sifting through the day’s events. “Nothing special. I baked it like the recipe said. Like I’ve always had. I never had people trying to straddle a blow-up doll version of Madison.”

“Well, on the bright side, she thinks I’m hot,” says Madison, grinning a Cheshire smirk. She whispers to no one in particular, “I fucking knew it. She’s in deep denial.”

Queenie rolls her eyes. The movie star always has a narcistic streak, but this is not the time or place. She turns her gaze to Zoe; she’s half-dazed and on the verge of tears as she caresses the doll’s cheek. Thank God, Zoe’s natural instinct is to straddle inanimate objects.

“Wait—She’s like this because of a brownie?” Madison questions, her eyes widen and the expression of ‘fuck’ carved onto her pretty face.

“It was Madison’s. You put pot inside my brownie when I wasn’t looking,” Nan accuses, flits a hard stare, and a little worship in that glare, at Madison.

Madison shrugs. “I thought it’d be funny to see Holier-than-thou and her major hunk of a son to get high after all that burn-in-hell preaching. I didn’t know it would be for us.”

“Girl, we got no time for this. Cordelia’s going to be back any minute,” Queenie reminds, stirring the conversation back to their problem.

They wrangle Zoe off from the doll. Queenie hooks her arms underneath Zoe’s shoulders. Madison clamps on Zoe’s ankles. Nan jerks the doll away from Zoe, then holds it at a distance. Together, they dump Zoe on her bed. Madison pulls the blanket cover over her roommate.

The comfortable silence breaks at Nan’s voice. “Crap, I offered the brownies to Cordelia too.”

“Girls!” Cordelia’s voice is a terrifying echo bouncing against the academy’s walls. Each girl darts to the foyer; shoving one another and nearly tripping over the stairs.

“Someone better start explaining now,” Cordelia demands, both hands firmly on her hips. She’s soaking wet. Golden hair damp, mascara runs down her face, and her blazer half-tucked in. “Why I suddenly ran out from a meeting, thinking I’ve found the Fountain of Youth in the middle of Audubon Park. _Speak_.”

“Oh,” they collectively answer.

“Madison laced the brownies with weed.”

“Nan, you treacherous bitch—”


	4. For the Love of Coffee.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just another morning at Miss Robichaux's.

She likes this. The absolute peace. The freshly grounded arabica coffee beans. The aroma of fluffy and buttermilky pancakes, topped with garden-fresh blueberries and maple syrup. Fiona isn’t sober enough to be a thorn in her sides. Not today, mother. This is shaping up to be a trouble-free day.

“Morning, Queenie. Glad to see you joining us for breakfast,” Cordelia greets, immediately getting to her feet. Her footsteps bouncy as she collects another mug from the cabinet, pouring coffee into the mug.

Queenie rubs her eyes and pauses, glancing at Cordelia critically. “Someone’s awfully cheery today.”

Nan merely shrugs.

“I love the smell of coffee in the morning and the sound of no one talking while I drink it,” she says, grinning and pushes the mug at Queenie. She takes a sip of her steaming coffee, sighing contentedly.

The ink-haired witch plops on the chair next to Nan. “Don’t be too sure about that yet,” she mumbles, yawning into her mug.

Nan spreads peanut butter on her toast, muttering to no one in particular, “Five, four, three, two . . . one—”

The sound of substantial masses smashing against walls and screaming—the kind that curdles blood and prickles the hair on neck—coming from above. Benson-Montgomery. Cordelia takes a deep, deep breath in. She hurries to their room, bunching the hems of her nightgown in one hand, in effort to fasten her pace.

“It’s not _illegal_ , it’s just frowned up like masturbating on a plane,” Madison screeches, high-pitched and vengeful.

“It’s morally wrong and you know it,” Zoe hollers, stubbornly furious.

Madison snorts. “Oh, right.” And she fierily spits, “Like _you’re_ one to talk.”

The two girls grunt sounding so eerily similar to two people taking handfuls of each other’s clothing and hair, in their attempt to wrestle the other to the ground. Curses increasingly becoming lurid and incomprehensible. Something along the lines of “You’re a toad’s scrimpy ass,” and “Suck it, slut’s loose socks,” being tossed in rapid hissing.

Standing at the doorframe, Cordelia tries to make sense of the scene and failing. She interjects with proper authoritarian tone she serves for frowning headmistress persona, “What the hell is going on here?”

Madison’s wild-eyed, flaxen hair sticking in various direction, as though frantic fingers been trying to tug them all out. Zoe too is bleary, dark circles fashioning a home around her eyes and . . . _are those bite marks on her forearms_ —

“W-we’re fine. We’re settling a little roommate spat.” Zoe relinquishes a hand-hold, uses it to start stabbing Madison in the ribs with maniacal reprisal.

“G-go away. Mind your goddamn business,” Madison stammers, struggling to evade the taller witch’s jabs.

“Girls! Stop it!” Cordelia commands. Her efforts to separate them is ultimately futile. Someone’s hand accidentally pokes her eye.

Madison couldn’t free both hands. An invisible force grabs Zoe’s hair, bringing Zoe’s face sharply onto the shorter witch’s bent knee.

“Fuck you, Madison. That’s a low blow.” Blood flows from Zoe’s wrecked nose, she stumbles backwards, quickly tilting her head.

Madison smirks. She herself isn’t looking pretty. A black-blue bruise slowly forming around her left eye. “I play dirty. That’s why I’m the winner.”

“That’s enough. Both of you. Zoe, in my room. I need to take care of your nose. I think it might be broken,” Cordelia admonishes, and to Madison, “And you, march to the kitchen and get an ice-pack for your eye.”

Cordelia sighs. She spoke too soon. Coffee isn’t going to cut it now. She needs wine.


	5. The Night Before.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zoe and Madison tries to settle their roommate's spat. Or how the girls ruin Cordelia's quiet morning.

Madison lies flat on her back, reading the latest fashion catalogue with fervent interest. She asks lazily, “So, what now?”

Zoe digs through the weatherworn trunk she found stashed at the academy’s cobwebbed corners. Much of the items are relic junk dated to the sixties; dog-eared postcards, vinyl albums of obscure musicians and love letters written in snarling red ink.

“We could play Monopoly,” Zoe offers, jiggling the box close to her ears.

“That lame board game? Why not the Seven Wonders? Then we could settle who’s the Supreme while we’re at it,” the actress retorts, burgundy lips pressing into a thin line.

“You don’t have to be so snarky about it.” The box’s colours have faded. White background yellowed with age, dark spots littering the cover. She checks the board game. No missing pieces.

“We’re not playing Monopoly,” Madison says, getting off from her bed. “Find something else. I’m willing to consider a singing battle.” She walks up to the glass windows, lighting a cigarette.

“What you afraid of, Madison? Losing?” Zoe challenges, setting the board game on the floor. “ _Forfeit_ , then the extra space is mine and you’re not allow to throw my clothes even if they offended you.” She tries to supress a smile forming on the edges of her lips.

The word strikes Madison iron-hot. She darts to the floor, crossing her legs. Leaving a trail of puff smoke behind her. “I never lose,” the shorter witch snaps, rolling her sleeves up. “Bring it on, bitch.”

Zoe doesn’t remember what time they started playing; the skies are apricot-hued, with a hint of lilac streaking the skies. Now, the canvas is a shade of starless black.

“Who’s the boot?” Queenie whispers, tossing a sidelong glance at Nan.

“Madison,” Nan replies, cranes her neck to get a closer look at the board. “Apparently it reminds her of her Jimmy Choo’s.”

“One, two, three, four, five. Community chest,” Madison says, with disgusting enthusiasm. A large smug smile slithering on her face, as she reads the card, “ _You have won second prize in a beauty contest. Collect $10_. FYI, I would totally killed it in a beauty pageant. That’s how I got discovered.”

“Oooh, $10, you must be real pretty,” Zoe mocks.

“I’m pretty close to owning your ass in this game,” the starlet scoffs, collecting her money from the bank. “Now roll the dice, you succubus witch freak.”

“Nine. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. Oh,” Zoe huffs, sliding back to her seat. Arms crossed, with the stupid game. She should have tried her luck at that karaoke battle, at least she could hit the notes decently.

“ _Go to jail_ ,” Queenie reads aloud.

“Go directly to jail. Do not pass ‘go’, and do not collect the $200,” Madison reminds, her delicate features are coloured with haughty and happiness.

“This game is going to end in disaster,” Nan comments, as if she’s talking about the weather.

“Nah, it’s not UNO. Now, friendships and marriages has dissolved because of UNO.” Queenie waves her hand dismissively. “But it’s Madison and Zoe, so anything can happen,” she amends, yawning. “Let’s hit the bed, Nan. It’s getting late.”


	6. Spying Out of Concern is Not Creepy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The girls channel their 'overprotective sibling' aura with mixed results.

“Nan’s twenty,” Queenie says, lips curving into a frown. She’s the poster child of utter boredom. Her chin on the wheel, glowering at the windshield. “And a witch. She can handle herself.” She sighs dramatically, muttering, “This cannot get any boring.”

“Bitch reads minds. What is she going to if a group of gangsters tries to rob her or the guy’s she dating? Read their darkest secrets until they cry? That superpower is as helpful as Zoe’s vagina in a physical bar fight,” Madison protests, sucking menthol from her cigarette. She blows a ringlet of smoke upwards, essentially filling the van with the toxic fumes.

“Would you stop huffing smoke into my face?” Zoe chastises, glaring at the shorter witch. Madison triumphantly smirks, and gloats, “Make me.”

Zoe bends over Madison to roll the windows down, digging her elbows into Madison’s ribcage as retaliation—Madison screams bloody murder, but Zoe ignores her, leaning back into her seat. “I know she’s going out on a date with Luke,” Zoe says, “and he’s like such a wholesome guy—”

“He probably wouldn’t do anything nasty without running to the nearest confessional and a priest,” Madison interrupts, scrolling through her Twitter feed. They should have left Madison at home, if she isn’t contributing to Nan’s welfare.

“Not him. It’s his _psychotic_ bitch mother I’m worried about,” Zoe clarifies, “W-where are they? I can’t see them,” she says, panic-stricken and pressing herself closer to the windshield.

“Fuck, you _lost_ them? How is that even possible? I mean, the couple with the most obvious height difference isn’t hard to find in a café in the hottest afternoon ever.” Madison sticks her head out, narrowing her eyes in the café’s direction. With the sun’s glare bouncing off from the fibreglass roof hitting her eyes, squinting is more likely.

“Give me that binoculars,” Queenie snaps, snatching the binoculars from Zoe, nearly choking her. “You are useless as the ‘G’ in _lasagna_. Eyes on the target. It’s not that hard. White people,” the voodoo witch laments. After a healthy dose of absolute stillness, Queenie pipes up, “Isn’t that Mrs. Ramsey?”

“Where?” Zoe asks, wrestles the binoculars back. She scans the café for Mrs. Ramsey’s dull churchgoing dress. Finds none.

Queenie points her index finger at the general direction. “There, on our twelve.”

“Zoe, hold my purse,” Madison murmurs, smashing her purse against Zoe’s chest. She bundles her prized marigold hair into a bun, affixing a baseball cap and a familiar pair of square-rimed reading glasses on.

“Ouch,” Zoe groans, rubbing her chest, “Is that Cordelia’s glasses?”

“I borrowed it. It goes well with your GAP clothes.” Grinning, Madison applies a fresh coat of lipstick and casts one final look at the van’s rear-view mirror. 

“Why are you wearing my clothes?”

“Are you an idiot? It’s to disguise myself. Duh.”

“Where you’re going? Madison?” Zoe calls, then hissing once she remembers they’re supposed to stay a low profile. “Madison, come back here.” Zoe turns to Queenie, eyebrows nearly touching her hairline. “Why aren’t you stopping her?”

Queenie shrugs. She brightens at the sight of Madison stomping across the road, imitating a poor version of Zoe’s awkward gait.

“Oh, look at skinny bitch go at psycho on her. Pass me the popcorn.”


	7. Out with The Ex-Wedding Gifts.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The girls help Cordelia to pack. Or rather, the girls do, except Madison.

“I cannot believe I’ve skipped a rave party,” Madison laments, crossing her arms haughtily, and pouts, “for _this_.”

“Nobody is stopping you,” Cordelia quips flatly. Even blind as a bat, Cordelia aims a well-crafted glare squarely at Madison.

“I would,” the Hollywood scarlet groans, exaggerating and whines, “But it’s at the other side of town and I don’t have the outfit.”

Zoe rolls her eyes and snorts. “So, grab a box and start packing,” she admonishes, telekinetically lifting the nearest box to the stack of boxes outside the room.

“I just got my nails done,” is one of Madison’s many standard excuses.

Nan outright ignores Madison, continually setting neckties and tacky sweaters into a manila box. She passes Queenie a highly questionable dildo—with spikes.

After the fourth hour, Queenie learns not to ask Cordelia questions. Nan has all the details.

A small flame alights Madison’s cigarette. She inhales the menthol, opting to poke her head into Cordelia’s closet. “Marriage is just what happens when dating goes too far,” she notes, “That’s why I don’t date more than six months. After that, it’s all bad decisions.”

Cordelia sighs, massaging her temple. “Thank you, Madison for that lovely unwarranted commentary.”

She blows smoke onto Queenie’s face, smirking.

“Stop smoking,” Queenie hisses.

“Make me.”

Queenie turns her gaze at the petite corn-haired witch and a wicked grin gleaming off her straight white teeth. Turning her Voodoo powers on, she crushes the cigarette underneath her heels and delivers two healthy slaps to Madison’s pretty face.

“Cordy—she just hit me.”

“I didn’t.”

“You know better than to do that,” Zoe interjects, amused.

“I didn’t see anything. Blind, remember?”

Madison pokes her tongue out. Lights another cigarette. This time, she stands by the door and huffing the smoke outside. Five minutes in, Madison has yet to make a beeline for some frat party she said taking place in the French Quarters.

“Seriously, Madison, make yourself useful if you’re going to stick around,” Nan urges.

“I’m _not_.”

Later, Madison drags the huge golf set behind her, out from the closet and props it against the hallway’s wall. On her own volition. Wordlessly. And returns to tackle Cordelia’s tasteless wedding gifts next.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any prompts to explore or just want to talk, give a shoutout at Tumblr, search for @gehrel. Just another outlet to work out my writer's block.


End file.
